Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Family

by Elizabeth Rundle Charles

  IV.

  Extracts from Friedrich's Chronicle.

  ERFURT, 1505.

  The university seems rather a cold world after the dear old home atEisenach. But it went to my heart to see how our mother and Elsestruggle, and how worn and thin they look. Happily for them, they havestill hope in the great invention, and I would not take it away for theworld. But meantime, I must at once do something to help. I cansometimes save some viands from my meals, which are portioned out to usliberally on this foundation, and sell them; and I can occasionally earna little by copying themes for the richer students, or sermons andpostils for the monks. The printing-press has certainly made that meansof maintenance more precarious; but printed books are still very dear,and also very large, and the priests are often glad of small copies offragments of the postils, or orations of the fathers, written off in asmall, clear hand, to take with them on their circuits around thevillages. There is also writing to be done for the lawyers, so that I donot despair of earning something: and if my studies are retarded alittle, it does not so much matter. It is not for me to aspire to greatthings, unless, indeed, they can be reached by small and patient steps.I have a work to do for the family. My youth must be given to supportingthem by the first means I can find. If I succeed, perhaps Christopher orPollux will have leisure to aim higher than I can; or, perhaps, inmiddle and later life I myself shall have leisure to pursue the studiesof these great old classics, which seem to make the horizon of ourthoughts so wide, and the world so glorious and large, and life so deep.It would certainly be a great delight to devote one's self, as MartinLuther is now able to do, to literature and philosophy. His career isopening nobly. This spring he has taken his degree as Master of Arts,and he has been lecturing on Aristotle's physics and logic. He has greatpower of making dim things clear, and old things fresh. His lectures arecrowded. He is also studying law, in order to qualify himself for someoffice in the State. His parents (judging from his father's letters)seem to centre all their hopes in him; and it is almost the same here atthe university. Great things are expected of him; indeed there scarcelyseems any career that is not open to him. And he is a man of such heart,as well as intellect, that he seems to make all the university, theprofessors as well as the students, look on him as a kind of possessionof their own. All seem to feel a property in his success. Just as it waswith our little circle at Eisenach, so it is with the great circle atthe university. He is _our_ Master Martin; and in every step of hisascent we ourselves feel a little higher. I wonder, if his fame shouldindeed spread as we anticipate, if it will be the same one day with allGermany? if the whole land will say exultingly by-and-by--_our_ MartinLuther?

  Not that he is without enemies; his temper is too hot and his heart toowarm for that negative distinction of phlegmatic negative natures.

  _June_, 1505.

  Martin Luther came to me a few days since, looking terribly agitated.His friend Alexius has been assassinated, and he takes it exceedingly toheart; not only, I think, because of the loss of one he loved, butbecause it brings death so terribly near, and awakens again thosequestionings which I know are in the depths of his heart, as well as ofmine, about God, and judgment, and the dark, dread future before us,which we cannot solve, yet cannot escape nor forget.

  To-day we met again, and he was full of a book he had discovered in theuniversity library, where he spends most of his leisure hours. It was aLatin Bible, which he had never seen before in his life. He marvelledgreatly to see so much more in it than in the Evangelia read in thechurches, or in the Collections of Homilies. He was called away tolecture, or, he said, he could have read on for hours. Especially onehistory seems to have impressed him deeply. It was in the Old Testament.It was the story of the child Samuel and his mother Hannah. "He read itquickly through," he said, "with hearty delight and joy; and becausethis was all new to him, he began to wish from the bottom of his heartthat God would one day bestow on him such a book for his own."

  I suppose it is the thought of his own pious mother which makes thishistory interest him so peculiarly. It is indeed a beautiful history, ashe told it me, and makes one almost wish one had been born in the timesof the old Hebrew monarchy. It seems as if God listened so graciouslyand readily then to that poor sorrowful woman's prayers. And if we couldonly, each of us, hear that voice from heaven, how joyful it would be toreply, like that blessed child, "Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth;"and then to learn, without possibility of mistake, what God reallyrequires of each of us. I suppose, however, the monks do feel as sure oftheir vocation as the holy child of old, when they leave home and theworld for the service of the Church. It would be a great help if otherpeople had vocations to their various works in life, like the prophetSamuel and (I suppose) the monks, that we might all go on fearlessly,with a firm step, each in his appointed path, and feel sure that we aredoing the right thing, instead of perhaps drawing down judgments onthose we would die to serve, by our mistakes and sins. It can hardly beintended that all men should be monks and nuns. Would to heaven,therefore, that laymen had also their vocation, instead of this terribleuncertainty and doubt that will shadow the heart at times, that we mayhave missed our path (as I did that night in the snow-covered forest),and, like Cain, be flying from the presence of God, and gathering on usand ours his curse.

  _July_ 12, 1505.

  There is a great gloom over the university. The plague is among us. Manyare lying dead who, only last week, were full of youth and hope. Numbersof the professors, masters, and students have fled to their homes, or tovarious villages in the nearest reaches of the Thuringian forest. Thechurches are thronged at all the services. The priests and monks (thosewho remain in the infected city) take advantage of the terror thepresence of the pestilence excites, to remind people of the more awfulterrors of that dreadful day of judgment and wrath which no one will beable to flee. Women, and sometimes men, are borne fainting from thechurches, and often fall at once under the infection, and never are seenagain. Martin Luther seems much troubled in mind. This epidemic,following so close on the assassination of his friend, seems tooverwhelm him. But he does not talk of leaving the city. Perhaps theterrors which weigh most on him are those the preachers recall sovividly to us just now, from which there is no flight by change ofplace, but only by change of life. During this last week, especiallysince he was exposed to a violent thunder-storm on the high road nearErfurt, he has seemed strangely altered. A deep gloom is on his face,and he seems to avoid his old friends. I have scarcely spoken to him.

  _July_ 14.

  To-day, to my great surprise, Martin has invited me and several other ofhis friends to meet at his rooms on the day after to-morrow, to pass asocial evening in singing and feasting. The plague has abated; yet Irather wonder at any one thinking of merry-making yet. They say,however, that a merry heart is the best safe-guard.

  _July_ 17.

  The secret of Martin Luther's feast is opened now. The whole universityis in consternation. He has decided on becoming a monk. Many think it isa sudden impulse, which may yet pass away. I do not. I believe it is theresult of the conflict of years, and that he has only yielded, in thisact, to convictions which have been recurring to him continually duringall his brilliant university career.

  Never did he seem more animated than yesterday evening. The hours flewby in eager, cheerful conversation. A weight seemed removed from us. Thepestilence was departing; the professors and students were returning. Wefelt life resuming its old course, and ventured once more to lookforward with hope. Many of us had completed our academical course, andwere already entering the larger world beyond--the university of life.Some of us had appointments already promised, and most of us had hopesof great things in the future; the less definite the prospects, perhapsthe more brilliant. Martin Luther did not hazard any spec
ulations as tohis future career; but that surprised none of us. His fortune, we said,was insured already; and many a jesting claim was put in for his futurepatronage, when he should be a great man.

  We had excellent music also, as always at any social gathering whereMartin Luther is. His clear, true voice was listened to with applause inmany a well-known song, and echoed in joyous choruses afterward by thewhole party. So the evening passed, until the university hour for reposehad nearly arrived; when suddenly, in the silence after the last note ofthe last chorus had died away, he bid us all farewell; for on themorrow, he said, he purposed to enter the Augustinian monastery as anovice! At first, some treated this as a jest; but his look and bearingsoon banished that idea. Then all earnestly endeavoured to dissuade himfrom his purpose. Some spoke of the expectations the university hadformed of him--others, of the career in the world open to him; but atall this he only smiled. When, however, one of us reminded him of hisfather, and the disappointment it might cause in his home, I noticedthat a change came over his face, and I thought there was a slightquiver on his lip. But all,--friendly remark, calm remonstrance,fervent, affectionate entreaties,--all were unavailing.

  "To-day," he said, "you see me; after this you will see me no more."

  Thus we separated. But this morning, when some of his nearest friendswent to his rooms early, with the faint hope of yet inducing him tolisten, while we pressed on him the thousand unanswerable argumentswhich had occurred to us since we parted from him, his rooms were empty,and he was nowhere to be found. To all our inquiries we received noreply but that Master Martin had gone that morning, before it was light,to the Augustinian cloister.

  Thither we followed him, and knocked loudly at the heavy convent gates.After some minutes they were slightly opened, and a sleepy porterappeared.

  "Is Martin Luther here?" we asked.

  "He is here!" was the reply; not, we thought, without a little triumphin the tone.

  "We wish to speak with him," demanded one of us.

  "No one is to speak with him," was the grim rejoinder.

  "Until when?" we asked.

  There was a little whispering inside, and then came the decisive answer,"Not for a month at least."

  We would have lingered to parley further, but the heavy nailed doorswere closed against us, we heard the massive bolts rattle as they weredrawn, and all our assaults with fists or iron staffs on the conventgates, from that moment did not awaken another sound within.

  "Dead to the world, indeed!" murmured one at length; "the grave couldnot be more silent."

  Baffled, and hoarse with shouting, we wandered back again to MartinLuther's rooms. The old familiar rooms, where we had so lately spenthours with him in social converse; where I and many of us had spent somany an hour in intimate, affectionate intercourse,--his presence wouldbe there no more; and the unaltered aspect of the mute, inanimate thingsonly made the emptiness and change more painful by the contrast.

  And yet, when we began to examine more closely, the aspect of manythings was changed. His flute and lute, indeed, lay on the table, justas he had left them on the previous evening. But the books--scholastic,legal, and classical--were piled up carefully in one corner, anddirected to the booksellers. In looking over the well-known volumes, Ionly missed two, Virgil and Plautus; I suppose he took these with him.Whilst we were looking at a parcel neatly rolled up in another place,the old man who kept his rooms in order came in, and said, "That isMaster Martin's master's robe, his holiday attire, and his master'sring. They are to be sent to his parents at Mansfeld."

  A choking sensation came over me as I thought of the father who hadstruggled so hard to maintain his son, and had hoped so much from him,receiving that packet. Not from the dead. Worse than from the dead, itseemed to me. Deliberately self-entombed; deliberately with his ownhands building up a barrier between him and all who love him best. Withthe dead, if they are happy, we may hold communion--at least the Creedspeaks of the communion of saints; we may pray to them; or, at theworst, we may pray for them. But between the son in the convent and thefather at Mansfeld the barrier is not merely one of stone and earth. Itis of the impenetrable iron of will and conscience. It would be a_temptation_ now for Martin Luther to pour out his heart in affectionatewords to father, mother, or friend.

  And yet, if he is right,--if the flesh is only to be subdued, if God isonly to be pleased, if heaven is only to be won in this way,--it is oflittle moment indeed what the suffering may be to us or any belonging tous in this fleeting life, down which the grim gates of death which closeit, ever cast their long shadow.

  May not Martin serve his family better in the cloister than at theemperor's court, for is not the cloister the court of a palace moreimperial?--we may say, the very audience-chamber of the King of kings.Besides, if he had a vocation, what curse might not follow despising it?Happy for those whose vocation is so clear that they dare not disobeyit; or whose hearts are so pure that they would not if they dared!

  _July_ 19.

  These two days the university has been in a ferment at the disappearanceof Martin Luther. Many are indignant with him, and more with the monks,who, they say, have taken advantage of a fervent impulse, and drawn himinto their net. Some, however, especially those of the school ofMutianus--the Humanists--laugh, and say there are ways through thecloister to the court,--and even to the tiara. But those misunderstandMartin. We who know him are only too sure that he will be a true monk,and that for him there is no gate from the cloister back into the world.

  It appears now that he had been meditating this step more than afortnight.

  On the first of this month (July) he was walking on the road betweenErfurt and Stotterheim, when a thunder-storm which had been gatheringover the Thuringian forest, and weighing with heavy silence on theplague-laden air, suddenly burst over his head. He was alone, and farfrom shelter. Peal followed peal, succeeded by terrible silences; theforked lightning danced wildly around him, until at length one terrificflash tore up the ground at his feet, and nearly stunned him. He wasalone, and far from shelter; he felt his soul equally alone andunsheltered. The thunder seemed to him the angry voice of anirresistible, offended God. The next flash might wither his body toashes, and smite his soul into the flames it so terribly recalled; andthe next thunder-peal which followed might echo like the trumpet of doomover him lying unconscious, deaf, and mute in death. Unconscious andmute as to his body! but who could imagine to what terrible intensity ofconscious, everlasting anguish his soul might have awakened; whatwailings might echo around his lost spirit, what cries of unavailingentreaty he might be pouring forth? Unavailing then! not, perhaps whollyunavailing now! He fell on his knees,--he prostrated himself on theearth, and cried in his anguish and terror, "Help, beloved St. Anne, andI will straightway become a monk."

  The storm rolled slowly away; but the irrevocable words had been spoken,and the peals of thunder, as they rumbled more and more faintly in thedistance, echoed on his heart like the dirge of all his worldly life.

  He reached Erfurt in safety, and, distrustful of his own steadfastness,breathed nothing of his purpose except to those who would, he thought,sustain him in it. This was no doubt the cause of his absent andestranged looks, and of his avoiding us during that fortnight.

  He confided his intention first to Andrew Staffelstein, the rector ofthe university, who applauded and encouraged him, and took him at onceto the new Franciscan cloister. The monks received him with delight, andurged his immediately joining their order. He told them he must firstacquaint his father of his purpose, as an act of confidence only due toa parent who had denied himself so much and toiled so hard to maintainhis son liberally at the university. But the rector and the monksrejoined that he must not consult with flesh and blood; he must "forsakefather and mother, and steal away to the cross of Christ." "Whosoputteth his hand to the plough and looketh back," said they, "is notworthy of the kingdom of God." To remain in the world was peril. Toreturn to it was perdition.r />
  A few religious women to whom the rector mentioned Martin's intentions,confirmed him in them with fervent words of admiration andencouragement.

  Did not one of them relent, and take pity on his mother and his father?And yet, I doubt if Martin's mother would have interposed one word ofremonstrance between him and the cloister. She is a very religiouswoman. To offer her son, her pride, to God, would have been offering thedearest part of herself; and women have a strength in self-sacrifice,and a mysterious joy, which I feel no doubt would have carried herthrough.

  With Martin's father it would no doubt have been different. He has not agood opinion of the monks, and he has a very strong sense of paternaland filial duty. He, the shrewd, hard-working, successful peasant, lookson the monks as a company of drones, who, in imagining they are givingup the delights of the world, are often only giving up its duties. Hewas content to go through any self-denial and toil that Martin, thepride of the whole family, might have scope to develop his abilities.But to have the fruit of all his counsel, and care, and work buried in aconvent, will be very bitter to him. It was terrible advice for therector to give his son. And yet, no doubt, God has the first claim; andto expose Martin to any influence which might have induced him to giveup his vocation, would have been perilous indeed. No doubt the conflictin Martin's heart was severe enough as it was. His nature is soaffectionate, his sense of filial duty so strong, and his honour andlove for his parents so deep. Since the step is taken, Holy Mary aid himnot to draw back!

  _December_, 1505.

  This morning I saw a sight I never thought to have seen. A monk, in thegrey frock and cowl of the Augustinians, was pacing slowly through thestreets with a heavy sack on his shoulders. The ground was covered withsnow, his feet were bare; but it was no unfrequent sight, and I was idlyand half-unconsciously watching him pause at door after door, and humblyreceiving any contributions that were offered, stow them away in theconvent-sack, when at length he stopped at the door of the house I wasin, and then, as his face turned up towards the window where I stood, Icaught the eye of Martin Luther!

  I hurried to the door with a loaf in my hand, and, before offering it tohim, would have embraced him as of old; but he bowed low as he receivedthe bread, until his forehead nearly touched the ground, and, murmuringa Latin "Gratias," would have passed on.

  "Martin," I said, "do you not know me?"

  "I am on the service of the convent," he said. "It is against the rulesto converse or to linger."

  It was hard to let him go without another word.

  "God and the saints help thee, Brother Martin!" I said.

  He half turned, crossed himself, bowed low once more, as a maid-servantthrew him some broken meat, said meekly, "God be praised for every gifthe bestoweth," and went on his toilsome quest for alms with stoopingform and downcast eyes. But how changed his face was! The flush of youthand health quite faded from the thin, hollow cheeks; the fire of wit andfancy all dimmed in the red, sunken eyes! Fire there is indeed in themstill, but it seemed to me of the kind that consumes--not that warms andcheers.

  They are surely harsh to him at the convent. To send him who was thepride and ornament of the university not six months ago, begging fromdoor to door, at the houses of friends and pupils, with whom he may noteven exchange a greeting! Is there no pleasure to the obscure andignorant monks in thus humbling one who was so lately so far above them?The hands which wield such rods need to be guided by hearts that arevery noble or very tender. Nevertheless, I have no doubt that BrotherMartin inflicts severer discipline on himself than any that can be laidon him from without. It is no external conflict that has thus worn andbowed him down in less than half a year.

  I fear he will impose some severe mortification or himself for havingspoken those few words to which I tempted him.

  But if it is his vocation, and if it is for heaven, and if he is therebyearning merits to bestow on others, any conflict could no doubt beendured!

  _July_, 1506.

  Brother Martin's novitiate has expired, and he has taken the name ofAugustine, but we shall scarcely learn to call him by it. Several of uswere present a few days since at his taking the final vows in theAugustinian Church. Once more we heard the clear, pleasant voice whichmost of us had heard, in song and animated conversation, on thatfarewell evening. It sounded weak and thin, no doubt with fasting. Thegarb of the novice was laid aside, the monk's frock was put on, andkneeling below the altar steps, with the prior's hands on his bowedhead, he took the vow in Latin:--

  "I, Brother Martin, do make profession and promise obedience untoAlmighty God, unto Mary, ever virgin, and unto thee, my brother, priorof this cloister, in the name and in the stead of the general prior ofthe order of the Eremites of St. Augustine, the bishop and his regularsuccessors, to live in poverty and chastity after the rule of the saidSt. Augustine until death."

  Then the burning taper, symbol of the lighted and ever-vigilant heart,was placed in his hand. The prior murmured a prayer over him, andinstantly from the whole of the monks burst the hymn, "Veni SancteSpiritus."

  He knelt while they were singing; and then the monks led him up thesteps into the choir, and welcomed him with the kiss of brotherhood.

  Within the screen, within the choir, among the holy brotherhood inside,who minister before the altar! And we, his old friends, left outside inthe nave, separated from him for ever by the screen of that irrevocablevow!

  For ever! Is it for ever? Will there indeed be such a veil, animpenetrable barrier, between us and him at the judgment-day? And weoutside? A barrier impassable for ever then, but not now, not yet.

  _January_, 1507.

  I have just returned from another Christmas at home. Things look alittle brighter there. This last year, since I took my master's degree,I have been able to help them a little more effectually with the money Ireceive from my pupils. It was a delight to take our dear, self-denying,loving Else a new dress for holidays, although she protested her oldcrimson petticoat and black jacket were as good as ever. The child Evahas still that deep, calm, earnest look in her eyes, as if she saw intothe world of things unseen and eternal, and saw there what filled herheart with joy. I suppose it is that angelic depth of her eyes, incontrast with the guileless, rosy smile of the child-like lips, whichgives the strange charm to her face, and makes one think of the picturesof the child-angels.

  She can read the Church Latin now easily, and delights especially in theold hymns. When she repeats them in that soft, reverent, childish voice,they seem to me deeper and more sacred than when sung by the fullestchoir. Her great favourite is St. Bernard's "Jesu Dulcis Memoria," andhis "Salve Caput Cruentatum;" but some verses of the "Dies Irae" also arevery often on her lips. I used to hear her warbling softly about thehouse, or at her work, with a voice like a happy dove hidden in thedepths of some quiet wood,--

  "Querens me sedisti lassus,"

  Jesu mi dulcissime, Domine coelorum, Conditor omnipotens, Rex universorum; Quis jam actus sufficit mirari gestorum, Quae te ferie compulit salus miserorum.

  Te de coelo caritas traxit animarum, Pro quibus palatium deserens praeclarum; Miseram ingrediens vallum lacrymarum, Opus durum suscipis, et iter amarum.[3]

  [Footnote 3:

  "Jesu, Sovereign Lord of heaven, sweetest Friend to me. King of all the universe, all was made by thee; Who can know or comprehend the wonders thou has wrought, Since the saving of the lost thee so low hath brought?

  Thee the love of souls drew down from beyond the sky,-- Drew thee from thy glorious home, thy palace bright and high! To this narrow vale of tears thou thy footsteps bendest: Hard the work thou tak'st on thee, rough the way thou wendest."]

  The sonorous words of the ancient imperial language sound so sweet andstrange, and yet so familiar from the fresh childish voice. Latin seemsfrom her lips no more a dead language. I
t is as if she had learned itnaturally in infancy from listening to the songs of the angels, whowatched her in her sleep, or from the lips of a sainted mother bendingover her pillow from heaven.

  One thing, however, seems to disappoint little Eva. She has a sentencetaken from a book her father left her before he died, but which she wasnever allowed to see afterwards. She is always hoping to find the bookin which this sentence was, and has not yet succeeded.

  I have little doubt myself that the book was some heretical volumebelonging to her father, who was executed for being a Hussite. It is tobe hoped, therefore, she will never find it. She did not tell me thisherself, probably because Else, to whom she mentioned it, discouragedher in such a search. We all feel it is a great blessing to have rescuedthat innocent heart from the snares of those pernicious heretics,against whom our Saxon nation made such a noble struggle. There are notvery many of the Hussites left now in Bohemia. As a national party theyare indeed destroyed, since the Calixtines separated from them. Thereare, however, still a few dragging out a miserable existence among theforests and mountains; and it is reported that these opinions have notyet even been quite crushed in the cities, in spite of the vigorousmeasures used against them, but that not a few secretly cling to theirtenets, although outwardly conforming to the Church. So inveterate isthe poison of heresy, and so great the danger from which little Eva hasbeen rescued.

  ERFURT, _May 2_, 1507.

  To-day once more the seclusion and silence which have enveloped MartinLuther since he entered the cloister have been broken. This day he hasbeen consecrated priest, and has celebrated his first mass. There was agreat feast at the Augustinian convent; offerings poured in abundanceinto the convent treasury, and Martin's father, John Luther, came fromMansfeld to be present at the ceremony. He is reconciled at last to hisson (whom for a long time he refused to see); although not, I believe,to his monastic profession. It is certainly no willing sacrifice on thefather's part. And no wonder. After toiling for years to place hisfavourite son in a position where his great abilities might have scope,it must have been hard to see everything thrown away just as success wasattained, for what seemed to him a willful, superstitious fancy. Andwithout a word of dutiful consultation to prepare him for the blow!

  Having, however, at last made up his mind to forgive his son, he forgavehim like a father, and came in pomp with precious gifts to do himhonour. He rode to the convent gate with an escort of twenty horsemen,and gave his son a present of twenty florins.

  Brother Martin was so cheered by the reconciliation, that at theordination feast he ventured to try to obtain from his father not onlypardon, but sanction and approval. It was of the deepest interest to meto hear his familiar eloquent voice again, pleading for his father'sapproval. But he failed. In vain he stated in his own fervent words themotives that had led to his vow; in vain did the monks around supportand applaud all he said. The old man was not to be moved.

  "Dear father," said Martin, "what was the reason of thy objecting to mychoice to become a monk? Why wert thou then so displeased, and perhapsart not reconciled yet? It is such a peaceful and godly life to live."

  I cannot say that Brother Martin's worn and furrowed face spoke much forthe peacefulness of his life; but Master John Luther boldly replied in avoice that all at the table might hear,--

  "Didst thou never hear that a son must be obedient to his parents? And,you learned men, did you never read the Scriptures, 'Thou shalt honourthy father and thy mother?' God grant that those signs you speak of maynot prove to be lying wonders of Satan."

  Brother Martin attempted no defence. A look of sharp pain came over hisface, as if an arrow had pierced his heart; but he remained quitesilent.

  Yet he is a priest; he is endued with a power never committed even tothe holy angels--to transubstantiate bread into God--to sacrifice forthe living and the dead.

  He is admitted into the inner circle of the court of heaven.

  He is on board that sacred ark which once he saw portrayed at Magdeburg,where priests and monks sail safely amidst a drowning world. And what ismore, he himself may, from his safe and sacred vessel, stoop down andrescue perishing men; perhaps confer unspeakable blessings on the soulof that very father whose words so wounded him.

  For such ends well may he bear that the arrow should pierce his heart.

  Did not a sword pierce thine, O mournful mother of consolations?

  And he is certain of his vocation. He does not think as we in the worldso often must, "Is God leading me, or the devil? Am I resisting Hishigher calling in only obeying the humbler call of every-day duty? Am Ibringing down blessings on those I love, or curses?"

  Brother Martin, without question, has none of these distracting doubts.He may well bear any other anguish which may meet him _in_ the ways ofGod, and _because_ he has chosen them. At least he has not to listen tosuch tales as I have heard lately from a young knight, Ulrich vonHutton, who is studying here at present, and has things to relate of themonks, priests, and bishops in Rome itself which tempt one to think allinvisible things a delusion, and all religion a pretence.